


si fondono tra loro

by stammiviktor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Chronological, Relationship Study, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 20:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor
Summary: Yuuri and Viktor, blending together.





	si fondono tra loro

**Author's Note:**

> Look Ma, I wrote something concise!

When Viktor touches Yuuri, Yuuri jerks away. He skitters, _screeches,_ as if Viktor had come at him with a knife and not a gentle finger hooked under his chin.

Barely a day has passed since Viktor showed up on Yuuri’s family’s doorstep with his poodle, unclear expectations, and FedEx truck of belongings in tow. When he stares at Yuuri from across the room, eyes the size of saucers and jinbei slipping off his shoulder, it’s horribly uncertain where either of them can go from here.

The air between them is so thick it hurts to breathe, sometimes, like the air in the onsen on a hot summer’s day. But it’s not summer yet—it’s spring, sakura petals sweeping through the air, landing in their hair where they sit on the bench, side by side with a mile between them. 

Viktor longs to reach out, but he wants to keep Yuuri close, so he keeps his hands and thrumming, stubborn _need_ to himself.

Yuuri longs to reach out, but this is Viktor Nikiforov, and he knows he never can.

…

On the steps of a cathedral in Spain, it is Yuuri who reaches out first. He takes Viktor’s hand in his and tugs at the glove, the slide of the leather leaving Viktor’s skin exposed to the chilly December air.

The precious metal is cold against his finger for only a moment, before it envelopes him entirely with warmth. He seizes Yuuri’s hands, then, feels them trembling only slightly to match the delicate rosiness of his cheeks. It is one of the most important moments of both of their lives, as Viktor slips the matching golden band on Yuuri’s finger to complete their matching set, but there is no room for doubt in Yuuri’s mind when he’s already full to the brim with something much more powerful.

They do not say aloud what this means, these _omamori,_ but they know.

They know.

…

The moments Viktor will treasure most of the Sochi Grand Prix Final Banquet are not the ones that he or Chris or Mila manage to capture on camera. Not the dancing, nor the _pole-_ dancing, nor even _be-my-coach-Viktor_ leg-grinding. It is afterward, once the crowd breaks up, the ISU officials start to leave and Viktor deposits Yuuri at a table in the corner with a glass of water he carefully brings to his lips.

“Mm, that’s nice,” Yuuri cooes after the smallest of sips, a drop of which dribbles down his chin. He lists to the side, suddenly far more drunk and unstable than he seemed while dancing with Viktor only minutes ago. Viktor scoots his chair closer and tries desperately to slow his heart when Yuuri slumps against his chest, face buried against Viktor’s neck.

“You smell nice,” Yuuri mumbles, and then giggles, which is so cute that it cancels out the non-cuteness of his belligerent refusal to drink more water.

Yuuri will not have any memories of this night at all, but at the time, he relishes in the soft, cool skin of Viktor’s collarbone beneath his cheek, the strength of Viktor’s arms around him that he would trust to carry him to the end of the world and back. He wants to stay here. It’s even better than dancing, being held by Viktor Nikiforov, who is very gentle and smells very nice.

Viktor wants to stay here, too. He wants the reliant, trusting weight of Yuuri in his arms to remain until his muscles give out. He wants whatever beautiful thing that has seized his heart and bloomed around his ribcage to continue to grow, not dissolve into longing the way he knows it will the second this night leaves him behind with no clue of how to get it back.

Eventually, too soon, Celestino comes to take Yuuri away. Viktor longs to press a tiny kiss to Yuuri’s sweaty temple, imagines how it would feel to keep that moment as a souvenir. Instead, he slips a crumpled napkin with his number scribbled on top into Yuuri’s pocket, relinquishes the skater to his coach, and heads back to his hotel room with his skin still tingling in every place Yuuri touched.

…

Yuuri slides into Viktor slowly, teasingly, so torturously that when he finally flicks his hips and bottoms out Viktor _screams._

Yuuri laughs, presses a sloppy kiss into Viktor’s open palm, and flips them to put Viktor on top.

“Is this better?” Yuuri asks, the cadence of his low voice singing with desire. Viktor, straddling Yuuri’s waist with his face flushed all the way down to his chest, pushes his sweaty bangs from his eyes before surging forward to capture Yuuri’s lips in his mouth and bucking his hips to make them move together.

“You have _no idea_ ,” Viktor chokes out against Yuuri’s mouth, filling his lungs with praise.

“With you for a fiancé? I think I do.” Yuuri wraps his arms around Viktor’s back and jerks his hips up, just to punctuate the point. Viktor keens.

Yuuri’s nails aren’t long enough to leave more than little trails of red down Viktor’s back as he claws and chokes in need, but it sends thrills down Viktor’s spine all the same.

Viktor gasps when Yuuri flips them again to leave Viktor spread out on the bed, wrapped firmly in Yuuri’s slick fist. Yuuri pleasures him, snaps his hips into him, presses hot, licking kisses down Viktor’s chest like he can’t bear to leave any piece of Viktor’s body un-worshipped.

They do this often, perhaps _too_ often, in as many ways as either of them can dream up—and as artists, they are both quite creative. This, right now, is as simple as it gets, but it always shocks them how overpowering it can be, just holding each other as close as possible and refusing to let go.

Viktor takes every bit of Yuuri against, around, into his body, and Yuuri does the same to him. There, wrapped and tangled up together, they lavish one another with every bit of adoration they deserve.

…

Before the quiet moment at the table in the corner, before the leg-grinding and the dance-offs, the banquet was just a banquet like any other.

Or, at least it was for the rest of the skaters and coaches and officials present that night. There were two athletes, however, one at the height of his career and the other facing the absolute low, for whom this banquet will likely be one of the very last.

Retirement looms for Yuuri in the form of the dead dog he’d abandoned and four tooth-rattling, bone-jarring _splats_ on the ice during what was supposed to be his chance to shine. For Viktor, who landed all his jumps and whose own poodle is still alive, it’s instead a crisis of his own making—he doesn’t know if he wants to retire, but the umpteenth gold medal weighing down his neck with apathy might just force his hand.

Sponsors and officials swarm around him like flies, asking plenty of questions he knows the practiced answers to but, most frequently, the one he doesn’t. He says _you’ll have to just wait and see_ with a wink and a flip of his bangs, and keeps the terrifying emptiness that comes with thinking of the future held very, very tight to his chest.

Yuuri, on the other hand, keeps to the refreshments table and is left mostly alone. There aren’t many questions to ask the amateur wannabe who can’t do anything but overeat, panic, and fall on his ass. He’s celebrating nothing but tips back flute after flute of champagne anyhow, attempting not to get caught staring at Viktor Nikiforov from across the room like the pathetic fanboy he clearly will always be.

On the other side of the banquet hall, Viktor catches glimpses over sponsor’s shoulders of the skater who blew him off yesterday downing wine like it’s his calling. Something sparks in his chest and, for a moment, he considers breaking away.

Instead, he just turns back to the sponsor, smiles, and says, _You’ll just have to wait and—_

_…_

“—it’s been an honor to skate for all of you. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to end my career as a competitive skater. I want to thank everyone who has supported me…”

The statement goes on, but Yuuri does not need to listen. He knows these words by heart by now, after the painstaking process of helping Viktor write and rewrite each sentence. It was worth it in the end, for how beautifully it wraps up Viktor’s undeniably legendary career. They sit together at the table in front of the press, Viktor in the center flanked by Yuri on his left and Yuuri on his right. The silver medal gleams around Yuuri’s neck, and he hopes the world looks at them and knows that it’s Viktor’s accomplishment, too.

For Viktor, the words roll off of his tongue with ease. It’s one of those moments he will hardly remember the details of come Monday, but will always remember the pleasant buzz of adrenaline-soaked pride in his veins and Yuuri’s hand squeezing his under the table.

When they walk away from the table, the tears come quickly for both of them. Yuuri tugs them into a supply closet just off of the hallway, where it’s dark and quiet and just the two of them, Yuuri and Six-Time World Gold Medalist, Living Legend Viktor Mikhailovich Nikiforov.

“Vitya,” Yuuri breathes, and pulls him close. Something trembles beneath Viktor’s skin, something that isn’t quite happiness or sadness but somewhere in between. Alone, in the dark, the adrenaline fades, reality sinks in and the ache in his feet and ankles returns. For so many years, he was alone for this part, when the glory of victory faded and he had to face what little was left behind.

Yuuri is not little. Yuuri’s arms around him and his head tucked into Viktor’s chest are the biggest things in the entire world.

“I’m so proud of you,” Yuuri whispers, and he hopes Viktor can feel how deeply he means those words. “You were stunning today.”

Viktor’s breath catches in his chest and he hiccups. _“Thank you.”_

“Want to stay here a little longer?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Mm. Me too,” Yuuri hums, then tilts his head up for a kiss that Viktor eagerly grants. Things heat up… quickly.

“We can’t have sex here,” Viktor groans against Yuuri’s mouth.

“Can’t we?”

“ _Yuu-_ ri…”

“Mm, I want to kiss my gold medalist.”

“Imagine what people would say when we come out!”

Yuuri grins and says, _“Exactly.”_

…

When Yuuri closes his eyes, he sees his name at the bottom of the scoreboard and a headline reading _Katsuki Defeated._ Oh, and Vicchan. Of course, his Vicchan. He drags his rolling bag of skate gear behind him through the lobby, head down and Reporter Morooka on his tail.

He just wants to sleep. _God,_ he wants to sleep.

When he catches Viktor Nikiforov’s eyes on the other side of the lobby, he freezes like a frightened animal. The star skater’s smile is blinding, his voice like bells as he offers Yuuri something his twelve-year old self could only fantasize about. His twenty-three year old self, on the other hand, can’t bear it: being close enough to his dreams that he could reach out, scrape them with a fingernail, but still falling short; knowing it’s the best he’ll ever be able to do.

For Viktor, the moment seems to last a lifetime, long enough for the giant smile to fall from his face and for his mind to whir with second-guesses. On the other side of the lobby stands the skater with shoddy jump technique but those step sequences that remind Viktor so much of what he always hoped his own looked like.

Viktor and Yuuri look each other in the eyes, sea-blue and russet-brown, a horrible resignation hiding behind each.

Yuuri turns away. Viktor stands and watches him go.

… 

Years later, on a beautiful summer day, Viktor watches Yuuri walk up an aisle flanked by their friends and loved ones, each step measured and his smile radiant. It’s the sweetest kind of torture, waiting for Yuuri to join him at the altar.

Yuuri, carrying himself proudly in his wedding kimono, feels the weight of everyone’s gaze as if he were at center ice, but keeps his eyes locked on Viktor’s. He can barely stop himself from breaking out into a run.

Seconds, meters, mere moments between them now. When their bodies finally meet, hands joining together between them, it feels like slipping into the onsen, like coming home after a long day of practice, like a leaping hug in the airport arrivals section or a gentle hug from behind for no reason at all.

They marry each other on the beach, hearts in their throats and tears in their eyes, and their first kiss as husbands tastes of sea-salt and love and their unbreakable promise to never let each other go.  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this little story, I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think <3
> 
> talk to me on tumblr at [stammiviktor!](http://stammiviktor.tumblr.com)


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